


A Case of Unintentional Flirting

by Irmelin



Category: British Comedian RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irmelin/pseuds/Irmelin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the anonymeme prompt: Mitchell becomes uncomfortable with Brooker's escalating flirtation in public (over Twitter, on panel shows) and tells him so. Brooker's been thinking of it as a joke; it's not until Mitchell confronts him about it that he realises that, shit, maybe he actually does...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of Unintentional Flirting

The last straw, apparently, is a recording of Would I Lie To You? If Charlie had known that the straws had been gathering, he probably would have tried to contain the glee he feels when David looks at his card with disdain and reads: “I keep a pile of pillows on the floor when I sleep, in case I fall out of bed.” It seems like the entire panel have just been waiting for a moment to discuss David's sleeping habits, because they all start talking at once, and Charlie is having trouble making himself heard over Claudia's speculations on pillow fights and Lee's suggestion of a bigger bed. (“It doesn't matter how big the bed is,” David replies reasonably, “there will always be an edge to fall off.”)

“Have you tried tying yourself to the bedpost?” Charlie asks finally, when everyone else is stopping for breath, and David's eyes widen comically.

“Oh, hello,” Rob says, leaning forward, interested, and Charlie always suspected Rob was a kinky bastard.

“I don't know what kind of paraphernalia you keep in your bedroom,” David starts, and when Charlie opens his mouth to interrupt he hurriedly adds, “and I don't wish to know. But I don't usually keep ropes lying around.”

“This might be an outrageous idea,” Charlie says, “but you could try actually sleeping with another person, and use them as a barrier.”

“Are you offering, Charlie?” Rob asks, after a split second where they're all waiting for David to say just that, which he fails to do, the slacker, and Charlie is momentarily thrown off his game, but manages:

“Well, who wouldn't?” and after encouraging agreement from Rob and Claudia he simply keeps going, enjoying the way David turns redder and redder, and his explanations more stuttering, to the point where Lee just leans back in his chair and leaves it up to Charlie to decide whether it's a lie or not, since he's obviously the expert on David's bedroom habits. It is, in fact, a lie, which is somehow disappointing, but not as disappointing as the way David is uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the game.

After the recording, the two of them are waiting around for Rob and Lee so they can go to the pub, and Charlie is keeping up a monologue, trying to hide the fact that David is still quiet, and right in the middle of his thoughts on yesterday's Jeremy Kyle show, David suddenly says:

“Look, could you just stop it?”

Charlie is taken by surprise. “Talking?” he says uncertainly, because, hello, that might be a problem.

David shakes his head and doesn't quite look at Charlie. “The flirting.”

The fuck? “What?”

“The flirting,” David says again. “It was fun at first, but now it's all the fucking time, and I know the audience likes it, and I get that it's easy, with me having this awkward persona...” and Charlie isn't listening anymore, because seriously, what the fuck? He has not been flirting. He knows when he's flirting, thank you very much, and this is not it. Arguing with someone on a panel show is not flirting.

“I'm not flirting,” he says and wonders if he should maybe explain to David what flirting actually is, but David is wearing his “oh, I can't believe you're actually this dimwitted, but I will delight in mocking you for it” face, which tends to be hilarious when you're not on the receiving end (and okay, in most cases even when you are at the receiving end), but now it's without the delight and with an extra touch of frustration which is strangely disconcerting, and Charlie falls silent.

“Right,” David says, annoyance clear in his voice. “Whatever. You know, I think I'll skip the pub tonight. Early morning and all that.” And with that he walks off, leaving Charlie waiting for a punchline, because clearly this is some kind of joke. But there isn't one.

 

When Charlie comes home, slightly drunk and much earlier than he'd planned, he opens his laptop and stares in some confusion at his twitter page. There are a lot more @RealDMitchell in that list than he thought, and quite a few tweets, rather suggestive in tone, from the other night that he can't even remember sending. He grabs a post-it note and writes forcefully: “NO MORE FUCKING DRUNK TWEETING!” before he sticks it to the screen. It comes off after two minutes and flutters sadly to the floor.

Charlie doesn't notice. He's busy watching Mock the Week in a state of growing apprehension. He isn't certain if he'd define what he's watching himself doing as flirting. Painfully obvious but wildly unsuccessful attempts at seduction might be closer to the truth. Which is probably what most flirting is, on reflection, but whatever. He's not sure what's more embarrassing, his almost childish attempts to make David laugh, or the way he completely ignores everyone else. Although, judging from the sound of the audience, they certainly seem to approve. Which doesn't help at all. The general public is never right!

Why has no one pointed his ridiculous behaviour out to him earlier? Thinking back on the recording he's just come from he realises that maybe it isn't entirely normal to be quite that inquisitive about a colleague's bedroom habits. He wishes fervently that it won't make it to broadcast, but knows it will, because all editors are sadistic fuckers who won't let him get away with anything.

His mind is racing, and moment after moment pops into his head, like that whole de-worming thing on The Unbelievable Truth, and those tweets about kissing, and the entire Big Fat Quiz, and hang on, why is he suddenly appearing alongside David on every single panel show available, even the ones which none of them are hosting (which, to be fair, aren't that many nowadays)? Clearly this is all part of some greater conspiracy, and all producers are also sadistic fuckers, who want nothing more than to see him make an arse of himself.

Reluctantly he reaches for his phone and types a quick “Apparently you're right. Sorry. I'll stop.” and sends it to David before he has the chance to think twice about it. And then he goes out and gets absolutely plastered, because he has been flirting outrageously with David Mitchell for ages without even noticing, and if that doesn't merit drinking himself into oblivion he doesn't know what does.

And that should have been it, really. Charlie would stop flirting, and everything would go back to how it was before. Only, turns out Charlie doesn't remember how it was before, or indeed if it ever was different. He doesn't know how not to flirt with David, and suddenly every word seems full of innuendo. David is acting perfectly normal, the fucker, as if this isn't all his fault. Every time David sends him a friendly tweet Charlie stares at it in horror, trying to figure out how to reply in a way that can't possibly be taken as flirting, and ponders it for days, so that eventually he gives up, since replying so late would just be awkward. Once, when he spots David in the corridors of the BBC, he ducks into an empty room, rather than trying to say hi in tone that doesn't sound like a come on. And it goes on like that, until one day Charlie realises he hasn't spoken to David in two months, and that, nothing else, is the reason his heart gives a little lurch when he sees him in the pub.

Charlie has just managed to convince himself to go over and say hello (or more precisely nod hello, since he thinks he can manage a nod without seeming flirtatious) when he notices that David is sitting with Robert Webb, and he is fairly certain that Webb is glaring at him. Why he doesn't know, it could be any number of reasons (people are always glaring at him). He's more interested in why David is in the pub with Webb in the first place, they're always on about how they don't spend any time together outside working. Charlie would bet they're just saying that to stop people thinking they're sleeping together, and jesus, he really needs to get his head out of David's bed. The glare is enough to put Charlie off from going over to their table, though, which is surprising as he would never have thought that Webb had it in him to look intimidating.

So Charlie lurks in his corner, until he sees David get up to get drinks. He casually walks over to the bar and quickly has to abandon his plan since a nod hello won't work when David isn't looking at him.

“Hi,” he says in a voice which comes out rather squeaky, and that can't possibly be considered flirty, unless maybe you're fourteen. “Did I do something to offend your better half over there?” he continues, because Webb is still glaring.

David turns to him and his eyes widen in mock surprise.

“Oh, are you talking to me now?”

Charlie blinks, because David looks pissed. Not panel show exasperated, but really, actually, real life pissed, and he's never seen that before.

“You know, I apologise if I ruined your ongoing joke,” David continues, “but ignoring me completely? I thought you were better than that.” And then he takes his pints and leaves, without waiting for an answer. Not that Charlie really had one.

So once again he find himself at home, way too early, and not nearly drunk enough, searching Twitter for answers (and how pathetic is that?). He has been avoiding David sure, and not replied to tweets, and he did say no to appearing on The Bubble (but come on, they wanted him to go without television for a week! Do they know what he does for a living?), and there was that time in the corridor, and a couple of other occasions now that he's thinking about it. So, yes, okay, he has sort of been ignoring David, but he never actually thought that David would notice, much less mind. A tiny part of his brain, the part where pride is located, is ridiculously pleased, but mostly he just feels like he fucked up. Again.

A glance at David's Twitter account pretty much confirms that feeling. Because there hasn't been a new message in weeks, and that is just not like David at all. His columns aren't as sharp and witty as they usually are either, to the point where the commentators have foregone their usual vitriol for tentative inquiries as to whether David is feeling all right. And Charlie is remembering what Jimmy said the other day, about a QI recording where David hadn't ranted once. Charlie hadn't reflected on it much at the time, but now when he thinks about it, it's clearly a sign of something sinister.

Fucking hell. He broke David Mitchell.

Okay, this is bad. This is really bad. Charlie needs to fix this. Because if he has actually broken David Mitchell, then he's certain he'll have the elite of British comedy wishing for his head. There is no doubt in Charlie's mind that Stephen Fry (who really does have the most obvious infatuation with David Charlie has ever seen) could have him killed in an instant. Fry has connections. The thought makes Charlie feel vaguely faint, but he still manages to jot down a few sentences on an old envelope, because there is definitely a column about the panel show mafia somewhere in this.

So, yeah, failing to set this right is not an option, Charlie's life may be screwed up at the moment, but he'd still like to keep it. He knows nothing will be fixed now, though, at two in the morning, so he grabs pen and paper and tries to think of a plan. After twenty minutes, all he's written on his list is “make him laugh”, which seems straightforward enough, if he can just figure out how to do it without the flirting. Other people have done it, right? They do it all the time. It can't be that hard, he decides, and settles down to a panel show marathon, featuring David and people who make David laugh.

Six hours later he hasn't moved from the spot, and his mind is a turmoil. It isn't just him. Everyone is flirting with David, all the time. It's everything from Emma Thompson pretending to be interested in David's GCSEs to Alan Davies secretly filming him with his phone and Jonathan Ross's blatant offers of sex. Really, everyone is flirting with him, although perhaps not as intently or as often or as, well frankly, desperately as Charlie, but they are flirting, and Charlie is suddenly struck by a fear that someone else might get there before him. The realisation hits him with a force that makes him sink down deeper in the sofa, because up till now he didn't know he wanted to get somewhere with David at all.

Fuck.

Well, at least that explains the flirting. He needs to have a long hard conversation with his subconscious about filling him in on important revelations like this one of these days.

Just not today, because he has a sneaking suspicion that there might be a queue of comedians forming under David's bedroom window at this very minute, and there is no way he's letting someone beat him now, when he's finally starting to figure things out.

It's still far too early for socially acceptable house calls, he realises when he's actually standing outside David's door, but it's just as well. A newly awakened David, taken off guard might work in his favour. He rings the doorbell intently for five minutes, until the door finally opens. Charlie stares. David's feet are bare, his hair is tousled and he's wearing an old faded t-shirt and an expression of annoyance which quickly transforms into surprise when he sees Charlie.

Charlie can't breathe for a second, and he is so going to kick his subconscious' arse, because how the hell did he miss this. This is so much worse than he thought. He is completely and utterly in love with David Mitchell.

Huh.

Judging by the look on David's face, his feelings might not be reciprocated. He waits for David to invite him in, because even annoyed David is always unfailingly polite, but this time all he gets is a:

“What do you want?”

It's not said with any anger or hostility, though, it's more tired and a little bit uncertain, which gives Charlie the courage to explain the situation.

Well, he tries, anyway. The problem is that the first thing he blurts out is:

“To be fair, it is all your fault!” It doesn't exactly go downhill from there, it's more of an endless maze where the correct way to go has long since been forgotten, as Charlie tentatively starts to explain exactly how they ended up here, with the unintentional flirting and the kind of unintentional ignoring and the fear of beheading, and before his brain has the chance to catch up with his mouth, he finds himself telling David all about how he was expecting to find a dozen people already in David's bed when he showed up.

“... and I know Stephen Fry is a fucking genius, but I am certain I can beat him in bed. Just so you know.” He finally realises what he's saying, and quickly closes his mouth.

David blinks. Then he steps aside, a little reluctantly, to let Charlie in. “Tea?”

“Oh god, you're so British,” Charlie mutters and focuses on not touching David's t-shirt as he follows him into the kitchen.

“It's a quarter past seven, you just woke me up and started talking about having sex with Stephen Fry,” David says, and there's a tiny note of desperation in his voice. “I'm going to need tea for this, and since you're here you might as well have some too.”

Charlie tries to stay quiet as he watches David put the kettle on and take two mugs out of a cupboard, but he figures he has already made a complete arse of himself, so he might as well keep going, and besides, there's something he doesn't quite understand.

“Why only me?” he asks. “My flirting wasn't that much worse than everyone else's, and it's not like you sent out a memo asking everyone to stop.” He didn't. Charlie has checked. “What's so special about me?”

David doesn't reply, but Charlie can see the back of his neck turning a shade of deep red, and as he turns to pour the hot water into the mugs he's taking great care not to look at Charlie. Charlie frowns, and things start sliding into place in his head.

“You like me!” he exclaims, unable to keep the sheer glee out of his voice.

“I think you're insufferable,” David says drily and hands him a mug.

“Who doesn't?” Charlie scoffs. “Come on! I just poured my cold, cynical heart out to you on your doorstep, and you can't even admit you like me.”

“You're looking smug enough as it is,” David says, but there's a smile lurking there behind the blank expression, and Charlie is determined to bring it out, so without thinking twice he closes the distance between them, grabs David's neck and kisses him. After a stunned second, David gives into the kiss, and Charlie breathes a sigh of relief. A warm feeling spreads through his chest, burning hotter and hotter until finally the heat from David's teamug caught between them gets unbearable and he has to step away.

“Right,” David says, and sets the mug down on the counter, his hand shaking a little bit, Charlie is rather pleased to notice. He looks at Charlie and makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Bedroom?”

“This is all very sudden,” Charlie says, but quickly adds: “Yeah, all right,” when David's eyes narrow slightly, and if it wouldn't be a terrible shame to crack his head open before almost certain sex he might have tried doing cartwheels around the kitchen.

“Just to warn you though,” David says. “I am still picturing Stephen Fry.”

Charlie shrugs. “I've been called worse things in bed,” he says, and puts his hands behind his back to keep himself from grabbing David's hand as he walks past Charlie out of the kitchen.

David gives him a Look and Charlie forgets how to breathe for a brief second. “I bet you have,” David mumbles.

“Oh, so you get to flirt?” Charlie protests when he finds his voice again. “That's hardly fair!” But then David opens the bedroom door, and his protests are forgotten in favour of other, more pressing matters. After all, he has a feeling he'll have plenty of opportunities to pick up the flirting later.


End file.
